
BB 



UNIT. OF CAUF. LIBRARY. LOS ANGELES 



MR. 

SWEET POTATOES 



AND OTHER STORIES 



ffllustratcD 




Hbe Werner Company 

NEW YORK AKRON, OHIO CHICAGO 

1899 



COPYRIGHT, 1899, 

BY 
THE WERNER COMPANY 




MR. SWEET POTATOES. 

OUR milkman has a very odd name, translated 
into English it is " Sweet Potatoes/' His Chi- 
nese neighbors call him " Old Father Sweet Pota- 
toes." 

Some persons think him a good man ; others say 
that he is a very bad one. Just how that is I do not 
know his business brings him great temptation. 

He is accused of putting water into the milk. He 
himself says, that he only does it when he has not 
enough milk to supply all his customers ; then he 
does not know what else he can do. When we en- 
gaged him to bring milk to us we took him into our 
yard and showed him that we had a well of our own. 

The Chinese in their own country do not make any 
use ot milk or butter. They have a perfect horror of 
cheese, and in this part of China, perhaps, not more 



Mr. Sweet Potatoes. 

than one man in a hundred will taste of beef. Only 
a few cows and bullocks are kept, and these are 
needed to plough the fields and turn the rude ma- 
chinery of the sugar mills. 

I suppose " Father Sweet Potatoes " had never 
thought of such a thing as owning a cow, until for- 
eign ships began to come to his part of the country. 
Of course the ships brought foreign men and women, 
and these all wanted beef to eat sometimes the 
Chinese, wishing to speak contemptuously of them, 
would call them " beef-eating foreigners," and they 
also wanted milk for their cooking and for their chil- 
dren. 

So Mr. Sweet Potatoes bought some cows, hoping 
to make some money in the milk business. They all 
had long ropes laced about their horns or threaded 
through their noses, and he got some little children 
to hold the ropes and guide the cows in search of 
food ; for there are no grass fields in this part of the 
country, and all the pastures the cows have are the 
little green places on the rocky hills and the grassy 
patches along the brooks ; and the children sit by 
and watch them while they graze, for there are no 
fences, and, left to themselves, the cows might stray 
into the rice fields or wander away into places where 
th*y would be stolen. 



Mr. Sweet Potatoes. 

Strange to say, we have our best milk when the 
winter has almost killed the grass, or when the 
weather is too stormy for the cows to go out ; for 
then they are fed with the tops of pea-nut plants, 




THE NATIVE HUMPBACK COW. 



either green, or dried like hay, and up for sale in 
great bundles. This is delicious food for the cows, 
and when they have it then we have good milk in- 
deed, with a thick, white cream upon it. 

Sometimes they have cut grass to eat, which has 



Mr. Sweet Potatoes. 

been brought from steep places on the hills to which 
the cows cannot go. Very poor boys go out with 
baskets and knives to gather this grass, and are paid 
only three or four cents for the work of a day. 

Mr. Sweet Potatoes has two kinds of cows. Some 
of them are the native humpback cows, of very small 
size, very gentle ; sometimes red and sometimes 
brown, with hair that is smooth and glossy quite 
down to the tiny little hoofs, which look far smaller 
and cleaner than do the feet of cows in colder cli- 
mates where they walk out in snow and stand in 
frosty barns. 

These cows have very small horns, sometimes 
three or four inches long, but often mere little white 
buds coming out from their dark foreheads. Back of 
their shoulders they have a small hump, three or four 
inches high. And, almost always, Sweet Potatoes' 
cows have with them a pretty, little, sprightly calf ; 
for the Chinese believe, or pretend to believe, that if 
the calf were taken away the cow would die, and that 
it is necessary before milking her to first let the calf 
have a few mouthfuls of milk, poor little calf ! 

The other cows are very different from these ; they 
are water buffaloes, buffaloes not at all like the 
shaggy bison, but great, awkward creatures, that in 
summer like to wade into pools, and, safe from flies 



Mr. Sweet Potatoes. 

and mosquitos, to stand with only their horns and 
upturned faces in sight above the top of the water; 
or, when there are no pools, to wander into bogs and 
half bury themselves in the mud. They are as large 
as a big ox, with very round bodies mounted on very 
slim legs that have very large knee and ankle joints. 
They are of the color of a mouse, or a gray pig, and 
coarse hairs grow thinly over their skin, while, in 
contrast to the humpback-cows, they have two im- 
mense, crescent-shaped horns setting up from their 
heads, and measuring often a yard from side to side. 

Old Father Sweet Potatoes sells ten pint-bottles 
full for a silver dollar, that is ten cents a pint, 
and in summer he brings us a half-pint in the morn- 
ing and another half-pint in the afternoon ; for the 
weather is so hot that the milk of the morning will 
not remain sweet until evening, although the moment 
it is brought to the house it is boiled and then put in 
the coolest place we have, which is not a cellar, for 
cellars cannot be kept sweet and airy in countries 
where there is so much moisture and many insects. 

When, in our walks, we meet these cows they often 
exhibit fear, especially of foreign ladies and horses, 
sights with which they are not familiar. The little 
humpback cows prance skittishly out ot the paths ; 
but the great buffaloes stand quite btni ami suue at 



Mr. Sweet Potatoes. 

us, then throw up their noses and sniff the air in an 
offended manner that in turn makes us afraid of them. 
At night they are all brought home from their wan- 
derings, and the ropes by which they are led are tied 




THE WATER-BUFFALO. 



to stakes driven into the ground ; in winter under a 
shed, but in summer in the open air. It makes one's 
neck ache to see them ; for the rope is frequently tied 
so short that they cannot hold their heads erect nor 
move them very freely, but they do not appear to suffer. 



Mr. Sweet Potatoes. 

Next to his business the milkman values his daugh- 
ter, who, when I first saw her, was a plump, rosy- 
cheeked child and tended her father's cows. If you 
ever saw a doll with a plaster head that had been 
broken and then had been mended by having a strip 
of black silk glued over the crack, you will know 
how Mr. Sweet Potatoes' daughter looked. 

She wore a piece of black crape bound tightly 
about her head so that no one could see her hair. 
Some persons said that, owing to illness, she had no 
hair. If so it must have grown afterwards ; for, 
when she was older and had left tending the cows, 
she had it put up on her head with pins, in a strange 
fashion that showed she was going to be married. 

Sweet Potatoes had no son and he wished his son. 
in-law to come and live with him as if he belonged 
to him. Among the Chinese this is not considered 
so honorable or so genteel, as to have the daughter 
leave her home and go and live with her husband's 
family. It seemed strange that the son-in-law should 
consent ; for though he was very poor he was also 
very proud, and was very particular to have respect 
shown to him and in regard to the kinds of work that 
he was willing to do. I should never have guessed 
his foolish reason for being so proud, but some one 
told me that it was because his father, now dead, had 
once held a small office in the Custom House 1 



SHETLAND WOMEN 

NOT far outside the town of Lerwick, on the 
Shetland Islands there is a great, black, 
muddy tract of land called a peat-bog. All about is 
utter desolation. There are no huts even to be seen. 
The town is concealed by a rounded hill ; and when, 
through some opening between the bare upheavals, 
one catches a sight of the North Sea, it, too, seems 
deserted by mankind. 

The peat, or mixture of roots and peculiar black 
soil, is dug here in large quantities ; and all about the 
place are great piles of it, dried and ready to be 
burned in the fire-places of the Lerwick people. 
Peat takes the place of wood ; and in every poor 
man's hut in Shetland will it be found burning 
brightly, and giving out a thin blue smoke. 



Shetland Women. 

To prepare peat for market, a great deal of laboi 
is performed. First come the diggers men, women 
and children. Entering upon the deep, miry bogs 
they cut the soil up into cakes about a foot long 
and a few inches thick , and these they place in high 
piles to dry. After a few weeks they come again, 
and carry the cured fuel away to the town. 

It is while carrying these loads that the Shet- 
landers present a peculiar spectacle. The men are 
often very old. infirm and poorly clothed ; and the 
women are dressed in short-skirted, home-spun 
gowns, below which may be seen very red and very 
broad feet. On their heads they usually have 
white caps, nicely ironed, with a fluted ruffle around 
the edge. Passing across the breast and over either 
shoulder are two strong straps, and these support 
an immense basket hanging against the back. 

Thus equipped, the brave, stout 'vomen, their bas- 
kets piled with peat, tramp off to Lerwick, two miles 
away, to sell their loads for a few pennies each. 
They make many trips a day, always smiling, chat- 
ting and apparently contented. Often a long line 
may be seen carefully stepping along over the rough 
roads, stopping now and then to rest. 

The homes of these poor peat women are, many 
of them, simply hovels. When they wish to build a 



Shetland Women, 

home, they go out into some fields, usually far away 
from other huts, and there they dig a trench about a 




SHETLAND WOMEN. 



square piece of ground. Upon this they build walls 
to a height of about eight feet, and fill the crevices 
with mud and bog. For a roof they gather refuse 



Shetland Women. 

sea-wood, and, with this for a support, lay on layer 
after layer of straw, mud and stones. 

But what homes they seem to us ! There is no 
fire-place, only a hole in the ground, with a hole in 
the roof for the smoke to escape through ! No win- 
dows, the door serving for both light and entrance ! 
No beds, only heaps of straw ! Sometimes in one 
small room, often the only one the house contains, 
will be seen man, wife, children, dog and hens, equzd 
occupants, sharing the same rude comforts! Outside 
the house, if the owner be moderately well off, may 
be seen a herd of sheep or ponies, and a patch of 
garden surrounded by a wall. 

But there is something a peat woman of Shetland is 
continually doing that we have not yet noticed. All 
have no doubt heard of Shetland hosiery ; of the fine, 
warm shawls and hoods, and delicate veils that come 
from these far northern islands. Now, all the while the 
poor, bare-legged woman is carrying her heavy bur- 
den of peat, her hands are never idle. She is knit- 
ting, knitting away as fast as her nimble fingers will 
allow. In her pocket is the ball of yarn, and as her 
needles fly back and forth, she weaves fabrics of such 
fineness that the Royal ladies of England wear them ; 
and no traveller visits the island without loading his 



Shetland Women. 

trunk with shawls, mittens, stockings, and other fem- 
inine fancies. 

Not to know how to knit in Shetland is like not 
knowing how to read at home. A little girl is taught 
the art before she can read ; and, as a result, at every 
cottage will be found the spinning-wheel and the nee- 
dles, while the feminine hands are never idle. It is 
one great means of support ; and on Regent Street 
in London will be seen windows full of soft, white 
goods marked " Shetland Hosiery." 

Who first instructed these far northern people in this 
delicate art is not surely known. On Fair Isle, one of 
the Shetland group, the art is first said to have been 
discovered, very many years ago. On that lonely isle 
even now, every woman, girl and child knits while 
working at any of her various duties. 

The yarn with which the Shetland goods are made 
is spun from the wool of the sheep we see roaming 
about the fields. In almost every cottage may be 
seen the veritable old-fashioned wheel ; and the busy 
girl at the treadle sends the great wheel flying, and 
spins out the long skeins, which serve to make baby 
pretty hood or grandma a warm shawl. 



MARDI GRAS IN NICE. 

HAVE you ever happened in Nice at Carni- 
val? 

On a bright June morning, which my calendar 
called February twelfth, Rull and I tripped lightly 
down through the old olive orchards to the station, 
and billeted ourselves for Nice. 

Long before we reached Nice Hull's hands tin- 
gled ; for there lay a beautiful line of snow, miles 
away, on the north side of the Alps, and the poor 
fellow hadn't been as near a snow-ball as that for the 
winter. But I had only to say " confetti J '" and his 
eyes danced at the vision of the parti-colored hail- 
storm to come. 



Mardi Gras In Nice. 

Now hasten with us at once to the Promenade du 
Cours, up and down which the procession is to 
pass. 

First, however, I shall buy for you each a little 
blue gauze mask ; for you cannot even peep at Car- 
nival unmasked. And if any of you can wear linen 
dusters with hoods attached, all the better. Don't 




PROMENADE DU COURS," IN CARNIVAL TIME. 



leave a square inch of skin unprotected, I warn you. 

Besides the little masks, you may buy, each of you, a 
whole bushel of these "sugar-plums," and have them 
sent to our balcony. Also for each a little tin scoop 
fastened on a flexible handle, which you are to fill 
witn conjettt but on no account to pull at least, not 
yet 

9 



Mardi Gras In Nice. 

The crowds are gathering. Pretty peasant girls in 
their holiday attire of bright petticoats, laced 
bodices, and white frilled caps ; stray dominoes ; 
richly dressed ladies with mask in hand ; carriages 
so decorated with flowers as to be artistically hidden 
even the wheels covered with batiste blue, pink, 
purple, green or buff. Even the sidewalk, as we 







" PROMENADE DU COURS " IN CARNIVAL TIMB. 

pass, is fringed with chairs at a franc each. 

The " Cours " is gay with suspended banners, bright 
with festooned balconies and merry faces. Side- 
walks and street are filled with people ; but the 
horses have the right of way, and the people are 
fined if they are run over. 

Let us hasten to our balcony, for here passes a 



Mardi Gras In Nice. 



band of musicians, in scarlet and gold, to open the 
procession. 

Just in time we take our seats, and lo ! before us 
rolls a huge car. 

It is "the theatre" an open car of puppets 
but the puppets are men ; all attached to cords held 
in the hand of the giant, who sits in imposing state 



1 Jl 




" PROMENADE DU COURS," IN CARNIVAL TIMB. 

above them on the top of the car which is on a 
level with the third story balconies. 

The giant lifts his hand and the puppets whirl and 
jump. But alas ! his head is too high. His hat is 
swept off by the hanging festoons, and the giant must 
ride bare-headed, in danger of sunstroke. 

Next behind the car moves in military order a 



Mardi Gras In Nice. 

regiment of mounted grasshoppers. Their sleek, shin- 
ing bodies of green satin, their gauzy wings and 
antennae, snub noses and big eyes, are all absolutely 
perfect to the eye ; but they are of the size of men. 
You lower your mask to see more clearly, you are 
lost in wonder at the perfect illusion, your mouth is 
wide open with "Ohs!" and " Ahs ! " when pop ! 




"PROMENADE DU COURS" IN CARNIVAL TIME. 

pop ! slings a shower of confetti, and the little hail- 
stones seem to cut off your ears and rush sifting 
down your neck. 

For, while you were watching the grasshoppers, a 
low open carriage, concealed under a pink and white 
cover, has stopped under our windows. Four merry 
masqueraders, cloaked and hooded in hue to match, 



Mardi Gras In Nice. 

have a bushel of confetti between them, and are piled 
with nosegays. We slink behind our masks, we pull 
the handles of our confetti scoops then the battle 
begins and waxes fierce. 

But they are crowded on ; for behind them, in irre- 
sistible stateliness, moves on the Sun and Moon. 
Then come the Seasons : Winter represented by a 




" PROMENADE DU COURS," IN CARNIVAL TIME. 

band of Russians, fur-covered from top to toe, drag- 
ging a Siberian sledge. Summer is recognized by a 
car-load of choicest flowers, whose fragrance reaches 
us as they pass. 

Here rolls a huge wine cask which fills half the 
wide street ; there moves a pine cone, six feet high, 
to the eye perfectly like the cones, six inches in length, 



Mardi Gras In Nice. 

which we use daily to light our olive-wood fire. 

Then a procession of giant tulips stalk, calyx, 
petals, all complete. They also silently move on. 

Next a huge pot, with a cat climbing its side, her 
paw just thrust beneath the lid. Ha ! it suddenly 
flies off. Does the cat enter? We cannot see 
through the crowd. A colossal stump follows, trail- 




' PROMENADE DU COURS." IN CARNIVAL TIME. 



ing with mosses and vines. Upon it a bird's nest 
filled with young, their mouths wide open for food ; 
wonderful, because the artistic skill is so perfect that, 
although so immense, they seem living and not 
unnatural. 

Then a car of Arctic bears champing to and fro 
in the heat, poor things, as well they may ; for this is 



Mardi Gras In Nice. 

} cloudless sky and an Italian sun. Look carefully 
at them and tell me, are they not true bears ? 

But ah ! sling / sling! two handfuls of confetti sting 
your eyes back into place again, and dash the bears 
out of sight. Isn't it delightfully unbearable ? You 
shout at the folly of having forgotten confetti, and 
then resolve to watch your chance at the next poor 




PROMENADE DU COURS " IN CARNIVAL TIME. 



foot-pad. 

Here passes a man with two faces. His arms are 
neatly folded before, also behind. You cannot tell 
which is the real front, until, suddenly, a horse trots up 
and nearly touches noses, while the man moves on 
undisturbed. You meant to give that man a dash, 
but you forgot, he was so queer. 



Mardi Gras In Nice. 

Ah ! here comes a carriage of pretty girls. Down 
pours the shot from the balcony above. It rains on 
you like hail. It runs in rills down your back. You 
hold your recovered ears, and add your tone to the 
rippling, rippling laughter that flows on in silvery 
tide. 

Not one boisterous shout, not one impatient excla- 




U PROMENADE DU COURS " IN CARNIVAL TIME. 

mation the whole livelong day ; only everywhere the 
sound of childish glee. How good to see even old 
careworn faces lighted up with mirth ! 

Here goes an ostrich with a monkey on his back 
then a man with a whole suit of clothes neatly fitted 
out of Journals. 

But look ! look ! there towers a huge car. N ay, 



Mardi Gras In Nux. 

It is a basket a vegetable basket ! but its sides are 
as high as our balcony. On its corners stand white 
carrots with their green waving tops upward. 
Around the edges are piled a variety of garden beau- 
ties. 

But, wonderful tQ see, in the centre rises a mam- 
moth cabbage. Its large-veined petals are as perfect 
as any you ever saw in your garden, but their tips 
reach above the third balcony. Upon these veined 
petals climb gorgeous butterflies, whose wings slowly 
shut and open while they sip. As the mammoth 
passes, the outer petals slowly droop, and snails are 
seen clinging within, while gayly-hued butterflies 
creep into view. 

Now the carriages mingle gayly in the procession. 
Here is one with young lads, their faces protected 
with gauze masks, which laughably show shut red 
lips without, and two red lines of lips and white glitter- 
ing teeth within. The battle of confetti waxes hot. 
Merry faces fill all balconies and windows. Many a 
beauty drops her mask for an instant like ourselves 
to peer more eagerly at the wonderful procession, but 
at her peril. On the instant dash 1 dash I flies the 
wfetti, slung with force enough from the little scoops 
to sting sharply. 

War is the fiercest yonder where there is such a 



Mardi Gras In Nite. 

handsome family ( Americans we are sure ), father, 
mother and daughter. 

Here goes a carriage decorated with United States 
flags ; all its occupants cloaked and hooded in gray 
linen, the carriage covered likewise. They stop 
beneath the balcony, and sling I sling/ sling! in wild- 
est combat until crowded on. 

Up and down the procession sweeps. Up one 
side the wide " Cours " and down the other ; the space 
within filled with the merry surging crowd, under 
the feet of the horses it would seem. But no mat- 
ter. Horses and men and women and children bear 
a charmed life to-day. 

Now and then a policeman pounces on the boys, 
who are gathering up the heaps of confetti from the 
dirt to sell again ; but this is the only suggestion of 
law and order behind the gay confusion. 

Here rolls a carriage trimmed with red and white. 
Within are a pair of scarlet dominoes, who peer mys- 
teriously at you. 

But look again at what moves on. A car longer 
than any yet seen. 

It is a grotto. Within its cool recesses bask 
immense lizards. Some slowly climb its sides, then, 
in search of prey, thrust out their long tongues. In 



Mardi Gras In Nice. 

shining coat, in color, in movement, you would avow 
them to be lizards, truly. But how huge ! 

Behind the lizards pass again the mounted grass- 
hoppers, our favorites of all, for their wonderfully 
perfect form and dainty beauty. And lo ! they bear, 
to our delight, a silken banner, token of the prize. 

For, pets, do you read between the lines and 
understand that this wonderful procession was the 
result of truly artistic skill ? that to imitate per- 
fectly to the eye, to represent exactly in motion all 
these living creatures, and yet conceal within a boy 
or man who invisibly moved them, required all the 
delicacy of perception and nicety of workmanship of 
French eyes and fingers ? Think you that your little 
fingers and bright eyes will ever attain so much. 

Besides, all this was also a great outlay of thou- 
sands of francs. For Nice aroused herself to excel 
in Carnival, and offered large prizes one of five 
thousand francs, another of four, another of three 
for the most perfect representations. 

Nowhere in Italy was there anything to compare 
with Nice. And I doubt if you would see again in 
Carnival what would so perfectly delight your young 
eyes, or so quicken your perception of artistic skill. 

We look at our watches. Two hours yet ; but we 
long to taste the fun on foot. So we fling our last 



Mardi Gras Jn Nice. 

confetti, fill hair and button-holes and hands with 
our sweet nosegays of geranium, sweet alyssum, 
mignonette and pansies mementoes of the fight, 
then descend to the sidewalk to press our way 
along the crowded court. 

More and more to see ! and, last of all, Carnival 
tossed and tumbled in effigy until his death by 
drowning or burning. 

But we must be early at the station. Early, 
indeed ! Peppered and pelted all the way, tweaked 
and shot at \ but ever and always with only the harm- 
less confetti and soft nosegays. 

Sure that we are the first to leave, sure that no 
others are there before us, we pass into the outer 
baggage-room. Fifty more are there pressed hard 
against the closed door. 

The crowd swells; hundreds are behind us; we 
can scarcely keep our feet. Yet what a good-natured 
crowd ! The hour for the train to leave passes. By 
and by the closed door opens a crack ; a gilt-banded 
arm is thrust through and one person taken out, and 
the solemn door closed again. 

So, one by one, we ooze through, pass the turn- 
stile in the passage under surveillance of the keen- 
eyed officer, and are admitted into the saloon, which 
is also locked. 



Mardi Gras In Nice. 

We sink down into a seat nearest the one of two 
doors which instinct tells us is to be opened. Again 
we wait an hour till the last panting victim is passed 
through the stile. 

Then, O ! it is not our door which unlocks and 
opens but the other. We rush for a compartment ; 
but no ! all appear filled, so we step to an official 
and state our case. 

He conducts us on, on, nearly to the end of the 
train, over stones and timbers ; but, at last, bestows 
us out of that crowd in a compartment with but three 
persons. Soon we leave, only two hours later than 
the time advertised. 

For in France, little pets, the trains wait for the 
people. The people are locked in till all is ready 
then follows a rush like a grand game of "puss, 
puss in the corner ! " and almost always there is 
some poor puss who cannot get in. 

Guess how many bushels of confetti rattled on the 
floor of our chamber that night 1 



ON THE FARM IN WINTER. 

THE life of a boy in winter on the old-fashioned 
New England farm seems to me one of the 
best of the right kinds of life for a healthy lad, pro- 
vided his tastes have not been spoiled by wrong 
reading, or by some misleading glimpse of a city by 
gas-light. It certainly abounds with the blood and 
muscle-making sports for which the city physiologists 
so anxiously strive to substitute rinks and gymna- 
siums. 

But I rather pity a young fellow who gets his only 
sleigh rides by paying a dollar an hour to the livery- 
stable, and who must do his skating within limits on 
artificial ice. He never gets even a taste of such 
primitive fun as two boys I know had last winter. 
The sleigh was at the wagon-maker's shop for repairs 
when the first heavy snow fell, and they harnessed 



ON THE FARM IN WINTER. 

Dobbin to an old boat, and had an uproarious ride up 
hill and down dale, with glorious bumps and jolts. 

I rather pity a fellow, too, who eats grocer's apples, 
and confectioner's nuts, and baker's cream cakes, 
who never knows the fun of going down cellar to the 
apple bins to fill his pockets for school, and who 
owns no right in a pile of butternuts on the garret 
floor. I am sorry for a boy that knows nothing of 
the manly freedom of trowsers tucked in boots, hands 
and feet both cased in home-knit mittens and home- 
knit socks I cannot believe his blood is as red, or 
can possibly flow so deep and strong in his side- 
walk sort of life, as the young fellows who chop 
wood and ply the snow-shovel, and turn out en masse 
with snow-ploughs after a long storm the sound of 
the future strength of the land is in the sturdy stamp 
of their snowy boots at the door as they come in 
from their hearty work. I am not writing of country 
boys that want to be clerks, they are spoiled for 
fun anyhow, but of the boys that expect, if they 
expect anything in particular, to stay on the farm 
and own it themselves some day. 

This stinging cold morning the boys at the school- 



ON THE FARM IN WINTER. 

house door are not discussing the play-bills of the 
Globe or the Museum, but how the river froze last 
night, turning the long quiet surface to blue-black 
ice, as smooth as a looking-glass. Now what skating ! 
what grand noonings, what glorious evenings ! No 
rink or frog-pond, where one no sooner gets under 
headway than he must turn about, but miles and 
miles of curving reaches leading him forward be- 
tween rustling sedges, till he sees the white caps of 
the open lake dancing before him. 

Presently the snow comes and puts an end to the 
sport ; for sweeping miles and miles of ice is out of 
the question. After the snow, a thaw ; and then the 
jolly snow-balling. There is not enough of a thaw 
to take the snow off ; only enough to make it just 
sufficiently sloppy and soft for the freeze-up that 
follows to give it a crust almost as hard and smooth 
as the ice lately covered up. 

Then such coasting ! Just think of dragging 
your sled of a moonlight night up a mile of easy 
tramping to the foot of the mountain, whence you 
come down again, now fast, now slow, now " like a 
streak " down a sharp incline, now running over a 



ON THE FARM IN WINTER. 

even-rail fence buried in the glittering drifts, and 
bringing up at last at a neighbor's door, or at the back 
side of your own barnyard ! 

It is great fun, too, to slide on the drifts with 
" slews " or " jump- ers." These are made sometimes 
of one, sometimes of two barrel-staves, and are sure 
to give you many a jolly bump and wintersault. 

There is fun to be had in the drifts too, digging 
caves or under-snow houses, wherein you may build 
a fire without the least danger. Here you can be 
Esquimaux, and your whole tribe sally forth from the 
igloe and attack a terrible white bear, if one of the 
party will kindly consent to be a bear for awhile. 
You can make him white enough by pelting him with 
snow, and he will bear enough before he is finally killed. 

There is fun, too, and of no mean order, to be got 
out of the regular farm duties. Not much, per- 
haps, out of bringing in the wood, or feeding the 
pigs, or turning the fanning-mill ; but foddering 
the sheep and calves, which, very likely, are pets, 
takes the boys to the hay-mow, where odors of 
summer linger in the herds-grass, and the daisy 
and clover-tops are almost as green and white and 




10 



ON THE FARM IN WINTER. 

yellow and purple as when they fell before the scythe. 

What a place is this elastic floor for a "wrestle or a 
summersault! " and then, who "da's't " climb to the 
big beam, into the neighborhood of the empty swallows 
nests and dusty cobwebs, and take the flying jump 
therefrom to the mow ? Here, too, are hens' nests to be 
found, with frost-cracked eggs to carry in rats, and 
larger prey, also to be hunted when the hay is so 
nearly spent that the fork sticks into the loose boards 
at the bottom of the hay. 

But of all things which the farmer's boy is wanted 
to do, and wants to do, there is nothing such clear fun 
as the breaking of a yoke of calves. First, the 
little yoke is to be got on to the pair somehow 
and a rope made fast to the " nigh " one's head, 
that is, the calf on the left side, where the driver 
goes. Then comes bawling and hauling and push- 
ing, and often too much beating, until the little 
cattle are made to understand that " Gee " means 
turn to the right, and " Haw " means turn to 
the left, and that " Whoa " means stop, and " Back " 
means, of them all, just what is said. 

Every command is roared and shouted ; for an 



ON THE FARM IN WINTER. 

idea seems to prevail that oxen, big and little, are 
deaf as adders, and can never be made to hear except 
at the top of the voice. In a still, winter day, you 
may hear a grown-up ox-teamster roaring at his 
patient beasts two miles away ; and a calf-breaker 
not half his size may be heard more than half as far. 
Then, on some frosty Saturday, when the little nub- 
by-horned fellows have learned their lessons, they are 
hitched to a sled, and made to haul light loads, a 
little wood, or some of the boys, the driver still 
holding to the rope, and flourishing his whip as grand 
as a drum-major. 

Once in a while the little oxen of the future take 
matters into their own hoofs and make a strike for 
freedom, upsetting the sled and scattering its load, 
and dragging their driver headlong through the snow. 

But they have to submit at last; and three or four 
years hence, you would never think from their solemn 
looks and sober pace that they ever had thought of 
such rebellious freaks. They were the boy's calves, 
but father's oxen. 

Halter-breaking a colt is almost as good as break- 
ing steers, only there is no sled-riding to be had in this. 




UPON THE HAY-MOW. 



ON THE FARM IN WINTER. 

Till lately, the young fellow has had the freedom 
of the fields, digging in the first snows for a part 
of his living, and with his rough life has grown as 
shaggy-coated as a Shetland pony, with as many 
burrs stuck in his short foretop as it will hold ; for 
if there is an overlooked burdock on all the farm, 
every one of the horse kind running at large will find 
it, and each get more than his share of burrs mat- 
ted and twisted into his foretop and mane. 

Now, he is waxed and driven into a shed or 
stable, and fooled or forced to put his head into a 
long, stout, rope halter. Then he is got into the 
clear, open meadow, and his first lesson begins. 
The boys all lay hold of the rope at a safe distance 
from the astonished pupil, and pull steadily upon 
him. Just now he would rather go any way than 
straight ahead, and holds back with all his might, 
looking, with all his legs braced forward, his neck 
stretched to its utmost, and his head on a line with 
it, like a stubborn little donkey who has lost some- 
thing in ears, but nothing in willfulness, and gained 
a little in tail. At last he yields a little to the uncom- 
fortable strain, and takes a few reluctant steps for- 



ON THE FARM IN WINTER. 
*\ 

ward, then rears and plunges and throws himself, and 
is drawn struggling headlong through the snow, until 
he tires of such rough usage and flounders to his feet. 

Then he repeats his bracing tactics, the boys 
bracing as stoutly against him, till he suddenly gives 
way and they go tumbling all in a heap. 

If the boys tire out before the colt gives up, there 
are other days coming, and sooner or later he sub- 
mits ; and in part compensation for not having his 
own way, he has a warm stall in the barn, and eats 
from a manger, just like a big horse, and is petted 
and fondled, and grows to be great friends with his 
young masters at last to be " father's horse," in- 
stead of " our colt." 

But by and by the long winter this play-day 
of the year for the farm-boy comes to an end, 
to make way for spring spring which brings to 
him work out of all reasonable proportion to the 
amount of play, at least so the farm-boy is likely to 
think. 




A CHINAMAN'S QUEUE. 




E 



'VERYONE knows 
that a Chinaman 
wears his hair in a 
queue, but not every- 
one knows why he 
does so. A China- 
man's queue is not a 
mere oddity or variety; 
it is, to him, a very 
serious thing; losing 
it, he would almost sell his respectability, and history 
tells of more than one time when it has been a matter 
of life and death. 

In many of their customs the people of China fol- 
low their forefathers of more than a thousand years 
ag;o, but queues may be called a new fashion, having 



A Chinaman's Queue. 

only been worn about two hundred and fifty years. 

In very old times, the Chinese wore their long hail 
put up in a peculiar manner upon the tops of their 
heads, and called themselves "The Black-Haired 
Race ; " but about the time that the Pilgrims landed 
at Plymouth, in the year 1627, the Tartars, who had 
come down from Manchuria, and, after long wars, 
had conquered China, which they have governed ever 
since, made a law that all the Chinese, to show that 
they had been conquered, should take down their 
top-knots, and wear their hair as the Tartars did, in a 
hanging braid; and they threatened to kill all who 
would not do it. 

Of course the Chinese were greatly distressed by 
this ; but, as it was better to have a tail than to be 
without a head, they submitted in the end, making 
the best of what they could not help. 

The people of southern China held out longest 
against the queue, and, in one district, men were hired 
to wear it. Even now, dwelling among the hills, are 
a few men belonging to a very old and wild tribe, 
whose pride it is that they have never worn hanging 
hair; while the Amoy men, who were the very last to 
yield to the Tartars, wear a turban to hide the shaven 
head, and the detested tail ; but some persons think 
that the nation in general have come to like the new 



A Chinaman's Queue. 

style better that the old ; others think that they would 
gladly go back to the old way, if they could. 

A few years ago there was a great rebellion in 
China. A part of the Chinese rebelled against the 
Tartars, and all the rebels put up their hair in the old 
Chinese fashion ; and, because they did not shave 
their heads, they went by the name of the " Long- 
Haired Robbers." When any of their soldiers met 
a man with a queue they knew that he was loyal to the 
Tartar government, and they would kill him, or cut off 
his queue, or do what they liked with him ; and, on 
the other hand, the life of a " Long-Haired Robber " 
was not safe for a moment if he fell into the hands of 
the government troops. At length, after many, many 
millions of people were killed, queues carried the day, 
and the rebels were conquered. 

I have heard that thieves sometimes have their 
queues cut off for a punishment, and, now and then, I 
suppose, a person's hair must fall off after illness, 
but, in these cases, it would grow again. 

There are two classes of men in China who never 
wear queues the Buddhist priests, who shave their 
heads all over, and who can be known by the color of 
their gowns, and their queer hats, and the Tauists, 
who, as a sign of their priesthood, wear their hair in 
a kind of twist on the back of their heads. With 



A Chinaman's Queue. 

these few exceptions, every Chinaman has a queue, 
from the young child whose short hairs are pinched 
up, sometimes on the crown of the head, and some- 
times on the sides of it, and braided with threads of 
red silk into a tight little tail a few inches long, so 
stiff that it stands straight out from the head, up to 
the almost bald old man, whose straggling gray hairs 
are tied into a thin wisp at the back of his neck. 

The Chinese have usually a good quantity of hair, 
coarse, perfectly straight, and jetty black, except, in 
a few cases, where, from illness, the color is rusty 
black. They have hardly any beard, but some of 
them though not often before they are grandfathers, 
and more than forty years old wear a much-admired 
moustache. Accustomed to black locks and smooth 
faces, they look curiously on the full beards of the 
men, and the yellow curls of the children, of our fairer 
race, or, as they style us, "The Red-Headed For- 
eigners." 

The Chinese shave the whole head, except a round 
patch on the crown, about as large as a breakfast 
saucer. On this they let the hair grow, and it is 
combed back and down, and tied firmly with a string, 
at the middle of the bottom of the patch. It is then 
divided into three strands and braided. If a man is 
very poor, he simply has a plat, the length of his hair, 



A Chinaman's Queue. 

fastened at the end with a cotton string ; but the Chi 
nese have a good deal of pride about their hair, and, 
if they can afford it, like to have the queue hand- 
somely made. Often tresses of false hair are added 
to it, for making which the hairs that fall out are care- 
fully saved. Of course, the hair is thinner at the end 
than at the top, and to keep the braid of more even 
size, and to increase its length, long bunches of black 
silk cord are gradually woven into it. 

Queues vary in length, but grown men often wear 
them hanging nearly to their shoes, the upper part of 
the braid being of hair, and the lower part of black 
silk cord, which is tied in a tassel at the end. In 
southern China, children's queues are made bright and 
jaunty with crimson silk. 

For mourning white cord is used, and for 'hah 
mourning blue. Also, persons in mourning do not 
have their heads shaven for a certain length of time. 
When the emperor dies, nobody in China is expected 
to be shaven for one hundred days. 

Commonly, tidy, well-to-do people have their heads 
shaven every few days, and, as no one could easily 
shave the top of his own head, everybody employs a 
barber. Of course there are a great many barbers, 
and, with all the millions of people in China, they 
have a large business. 



A Chinaman's Queue. 

Besides the shops, many barbers have little mova- 
ble stands containing all their tools, and they may of- 
ten be seen plying their art by the wayside, or at the 
houses of their customers. The barber has a basin 
of hot water, a towel, and an awkward kind of razor; 
and when he has shaven and washed the head, and 
braided the hair of a man, he ends up all by patting 
him, with both hands, upon the back and shoulders, 
in a way which, to him, is truly delightful. For all 
this, his charge is not more than six cents, and a poor 
man would pay still less. 

To make his queue thicker, sometimes a Chinaman 
wishes to grow more hair, and the barber will leave 
his head unshaven for, perhaps, a quarter of an inch 
all round the old circle of hair. When the new hair 
is an inch or two long, being very stiff, it stands up in 
a fringe > like a kind of black halo all round his 
head, looking very comically, and annoying the China- 
man very much, until it is long enough to be put into 
the braid. 

When a man is at work, he finds his queue very 
much in his way, and he binds it about his head, or 
winds it up in a ball behind, where he sometimes fast- 
ens it with a small wooden comb ; but, in his own 
country, on all occasions of form and dress, he wears 
it hanging, and it would not be polite to do otherwise. 
II 



A Chinaman's Queue. 

As it would take a long time to dry it, he dislikes 
to wet it, and, if rain comes on, hastens to roll it up 
and cover it. 

Sometimes beggars, to make themselves look very 
wretched, do not dress their hair for a long time, and 
it becomes so frizzed and matted that hardly any- 
thing could be done to it, but to cut most of it off. 

When a culprit is arrested in China, the officer 
takes hold of his queue and leads him to prison by 
it, often treating him very cruelly. 

Little girls, as well as little boys, have their heads 
shaven when they are about a month old. This is 
done before an idol, with a good deal of parade. 
Young girls also wear their hair in queues, but as 
when older their heads are not shaven like those of 
the boys, a larger quantity of hair is drawn back into 
the braid, making it much heavier. When married 
their hair is put up in the fashion of the women of the 
district where they live, but married women never 
wear their hair braided. 

One who has lived long in China does not like to 
see a thin, uneven queue, tied with a cotton string ; it 
has a slovenly, poverty-stricken air; while a thick, 
glossy braid, with a heavy bunch of silk in the end of 
it, looks tidy and prosperous ; and a neat plat of sil 
very hair betokens comfortable old age. 



MEXICAN WATER-CARRIERS 

A MEXICAN water-carrier is always an oddly. 
-^A- dressed fellow. He looks something like the 
man some one met "one misty, moisty morning," 
who was all clothed in leather. He has a leather 
cap, jacket and trousers, the last reaching only to his 
knees, and held aside with bright buttons of silver, 
so as to show the white cotton drawers beneath. 
Down the front of his jacket, too, and around the rim 
of his cap, are bright buttons. Fastened at his side 
is a leather wallet holding his money. On his feet 
are leather sandals. Over his head are two stout 
leather straps, holding two jugs of earthernware, one 



Mexican Water-Carriers. 




ALWAYS ON A LITTLE INDIAN TROT. 



resting on his back and the other hanging in front. 
He begins work early in the morning. If you go 
into any of the public squares in the city of Mexico, 
you will then see a great many of them all seated 
around the stone basin and busy preparing for the 



Mexican Water-Carriers. 

day's work. They reach far over the edge and, dip- 
ping up the water, fill their large jug. Throwing that 
on their backs they reach down once more and fill 
the smaller one, and then trot off and visit the differ- 
ent houses of the city, and sell the families what water 
they want. 

You would say, perhaps, it was a heavy load to 
carry by the head and neck, but the carrier does not 
seem to mind it, for he is very strong, and the jugs 
just balance each other. It is said an Englishman 
was once told of this balance, and, to see if it were 
so, he waited until a carrier came along and then, 
with his cane, broke one of the jugs. Alas ! down 
came the man, jugs and all ; his balance surely was 
gone. 

Water has to be brought about in this manner 
because none runs into the houses by lead pipes, as 
with us. It all comes from near the old castle of 
Chapultepec, three or four miles from the city. 

It runs over great stone aqueducts, built by Cortes, 
and when it reaches the public square falls into the 
stone basins of the city. So, you see, it makes these 
carriers almost like our milkmen, only they do not 
come with a fine horse and carriage, and do not 
make nearly as much money. They only get a few 
cents each day. How hard they work, too! Busy 



Mexican Water- Carriers. 

from morn till eve, always earnest, hardly ever smil- 
ing, always on a little Indian trot, they go about from 
house to house, and then, when the day's work is 
over, what a life they lead ! 

They have no home to go to, either ; they live in 
the streets, sleep in the gutter or on the cathedral 
stone steps, and often, I fear, get so befogged on 
"pulque," the national drink, that they care not 
whether they have a home and good bed or not. 

Think what a miserable existence, not knowing 
how to read, dressing as those before them did three 
hundred years ago, and doing nothing but carrying 
water about the city. Every day they will go into the 
great cathedral and say their prayers. They put their 
jugs down beside them, clasp their Hands, raise their 
eyes to the image of their patron saint, and mumble 
their requests or their thanks, and then, taking a last 
look at the gold candlesticks and rich ornaments, will 
hurry away, and continue their hard, uninteresting 
daily labors. 



A VERY QUEER HOUSE. 

THERE are few pleasanter places in summei 
than the great square of Et-Meidaun at Con- 
stantinople. The tall gray pointed monument in the 
middle, like a sentry watching over the whole place, 
the white houses along either side, the polished pave- 
ment, the high white walls and rounded domes, and 
tall slender towers and cool shadowy gateways of 
the Turkish mosques together with the bright blue 
sky overhead and the bright blue sea in the dis- 
tance below, make a very pretty picture indeed. 

The different people, too, that go past us are quite 
a show in themselves. Now, it is a Turkish soldier 
in blue frock and red cap a fine tall fellow, but 



A Very Queer House. 

rather thin and pale, as if he did not always get 
enough to eat; now, a tall, dark, grave-looking Amer- 
ican, with a high funnel-shaped hat, and a long black 
frock right down to his feet. There comes a big, 
jolly-looking English sailor, rolling himself along 
with his hands in his pockets and his hat on one 
side. There goes a Russian with a broad flat face 
and thick yellow beard. That tall handsome man in 
the laced jacket and black velvet trousers, who is 
looking after him so fiercely, is a Circassian, who 
was fighting against the Russians among the moun- 
tains of the Caucasus not many years ago. And 
behind him is an Arab water-carrier, with limbs bare 
to the knee and a huge skin bag full of water on his 
back. 

But the strangest sight of all is still to come. 

Halting to look around I suddenly espy a pair of 
yellow Turkish slippers, a good deal worn, lying at 
the foot of a huge tree which stands alone in the 
midst of the open space. They are not flung care- 
lessly down, either, as if their owner had thrown 
them away, but placed neatly side by side \ just as an 
orderly old gentleman might put his slippers beside 
the fire before going out. And, stranger still, 
although at least half a dozen bare-footed Turks 
(who might think even an old shoe worth picking 



A Very Queer House. 

up ) have passed by and seen them, not one of them 
has ventured to disturb them in any way. 

My Greek companion notices my surprise, and 
gives a knowing grin, like a man who has just asked 
you a riddle which he is sure you will never guess. 

" Aha, Effendi ! Don't you think he must have 
been a careless fellow who left his slippers there ? 
See anything odd about this tree? " 

"Nothing but that piece of board on it which I 
suppose covers a hollow." 

" That's just it ! " chuckles the Greek. " It covers 
a hollow, sure enough look here, Effendi ! " 

He taps thrice upon the " piece of board," which 
suddenly swings back like a door, disclosing to my 
astonished eyes, in the dark hollow, the long blue 
robe, white turban, and flowing beard of an old Turk. 

" Peace be with you ! " says the old gentleman in 
a deep hoarse voice, nodding to my companion, 
whom he seems to know. 

" With you be peace," answers the Greek. " You 
didn't expect that, did you, Effendi ? It's not every 
day that you find a man living inside a tree?" 

" Does he live here, then ? " 

" To be sure he does. Didn't you see his slippers 
at the door ? Nobody would touch the slippers for 
any money. They all know old Selim. lie has a 



A Very Queer House. 

snug house, after all ; and don't pay rent either I " 
In truth, the little place is snug enough, and cer- 
tainly holds a good deal for its size. On one side is 
an earthen water-jar, on the other a huge blanket- 
like cloak, which probably represents Mr. Selim's 
whole stock of bedding. A copper stew-pan is fixed 
to a spike driven into the wood, while just above it 
a small iron funnel, neatly fitted into a knot-hole of 
the trunk, does duty as a chimney. Around the 
sides of the hollow hang a long pipe, a tobacco- 
pouch, a leathern wallet, and some other articles, all 
bearing marks of long service ; while to crown all, 
my guide shows me, triumphantly, just outside the 
door, a wooden shelf with several pots of flowers 
a garden that just matches the house. 

Having given us this sight of his house-keeping, 
the old gentleman (who has been standing like a 
statue during the whole inspection) silently holds 
out his hand. I drop into it a double piastre ( ten 
cents ) and take my leave, reflecting that if it is good 
to be content with little this old hermit is certainly a 
bit of a hero in his way. 



IN BELGIUM. 



AFTER rolling and tossing for twenty-four hours 
upon the German Ocean, the sight of land 
should be hailed with a spirit of thankfulness. But 
of all inhospitable shores, those of the Belgian coast, 
in the month of November, must carry the palm. 
The waters, gray and rough, dash upon a sandy beach 
for miles and miles, showing no signs of life, if we 
except an occasional wind-mill in action. Row after 
row of poplar trees form a partial back-ground. 
Somewhat stripped of their leaves, they have the 
appearance of so many gray pillars holding up 
the sky. 

As the low-built towns with their red houses rise to 
view, and the dikes present themselves, if this be the 
first introduction into Continental Europe, the foreign- 
ness stands out in bold relief. But as you ascend the 



In Belgium. 

river the villages are more interesting and indications 
of life more frequent. Long before reaching the pier 
at Antwerp, its towers salute the travellers, and the 
gratitude becomes apparent on each and every visage. 

Our little windows in the above-mentioned city 
overlooked its prettiest park, in the centre ot .vhich 
stands the statue of Rubens. At the right, yet full 
in view, stands the Cathedral of Notre Dame, famous 
for its ninety-nine bells (why not one more ?) and the 
masterpieces of the great artist of Antwerp. 

Of these paintings, the " Assumption," which has 
within a comparatively short time been restored, is 
truly beautiful, the countenances of the several figures 
wearing a pure expression, which is not a charac- 
teristic of the Rubens face in general. The fame of 
the others is perhaps yet greater than that of the 
"Assumption," and everywhere in our own country 
are engravings and photographs of the same, on 
exhibition or in private collections. Before these 
the lover of art lingers to study, and studying con- 
tinues to linger. For me, alas ! these chef d'ocuvres, 
"The Ascent to the Cross" and the "The Descent 
trom the Cross," have no attractions. 

The music of the bells at sunset repays one, not 
only for the tumble of the German Sea, but for the 
royage across the Atlantic, especially in the autumn, 



In Belgium. 

when the twilights are so short that the Mall is light- 
est as the sun goes down. This music singularly 
contrasts with the noise made by the footfall of the 
peasants. This numerous class, hurrying home at 
dusk, take the park as their shorter course. The 
click-clack of the hundreds of wooden shoes of all 
sizes and intensities, rapidly "getting by," is some- 
thing that can never be imagined. As these articles 
of apparel are seldom of a snug fit in the region of 
the heel, there is a peculiar introduction to each 
grand step. The quantity and quality of this noise 
are astonishing ; the novelty, a charm. 

There is one sound, however, which is sensibly 
wanting among the lower class of Belgians. It may 
never have been in the experience of others, but it 
could not be entirely my own imagination I missed 
the human voice in the groups of peasantry. The 
uneducated of other countries have at least a common 
" mongrel tongue " to some extent, but the individual 
vocabulary of this class is certainly very limited, 
which is a check to prolonged conversation. This 
feature was to me a cause satisfactory for the stillness 
of the streets, thronged as they sometimes are, and 
may be the reason that the foot-fall is so impressive, 
with itsfwooden encumbrances. 



In Belgium. 

Next to the shoe, the attraction was the harnessed 
dogs and the young girls drawing burdens. 

When a woman was seen wheeling a cart or trun- 
dling a barrow, it was just to conclude that she was in 
the interest of her own gain, and we could pass on. 
When the dogs, the old and despised of their kind, 
were leisurely carrying their wagon of vegetables, 
provided the driver was kind, it was rather a foreign 
sight than a painful one. Often these dogs lie down 
in the harness the latter not being very elaborate 
and do not seem unwilling to rise to the occasion. 
When it happened, as often it did, during our short 
sojourn in Belgium, that we saw girls, the young and 
bright and strong, bearing these burdens, frequently 
sharing the harness with the aforesaid animals, the 
American heart rebelled. If they were rough, hoyden- 
ish girls, romping all day long, filling their carts with 
sand for the fun and having a boy-companion as a 
play-driver, we should even then think, do they never 
go to school ? 

But they were not of this class ! They were the 
quiet and obedient, generally tidy in appearance, 
calmly accepting their lot in life through ignorance. 
I never saw a boy thus disgraced ; not that I feel less 
glad for " him," but the more sad for " her." 

When walking one day, having lost my way, I met 



In Belgium. 

one of these teams. There were connected with it two 
young girls, about fifteen years of age one har- 
nessed and drawing the load, the other having the 
charge of the cargo, which, from its too great abun- 
dance, required constant diligence. I inquired of 
them the direction to the hotel. 

Without altering a muscle, they continued their 
gaze (we had begun the stare from afar). So listless 
was it that they seemed like pet animals, who look 
at one confidingly, except in the case of the latter 
there will be " wink of recognition." No attempt 
was made to reply. After I turned, they kept their 
eyes upon the space which I had occupied, as if I 
had merely been an obstruction to their sunshine. A 
person, not far from them, answered my inquiries, 
adding, with a nod towards the " little workers," 
" they only talk mongrel." 

This woman, short and chubby, forcibly reminded 
me of somebody or something in the past. After a 
brief reflection, behold the solution : 

Before toys had become so elaborate in our own 
country, there occasionally found their way from 
Holland images of pewter, representing the dairy- 
maids of that part of Europe. They were far differ- 
ent from the pewter-pieces of the present day, being 
thicker and less destructible. The one that came 



In Belgium. 

into my possession, the delight of my heart, wore the 
short, full dress and sun-bonnet, with arms akimbo. 
The one, ah me 1 that would have been my choice 
was purchased by a class-mate, she having at that 
time, and I presume at this time, twice my amount of 
funds. The price of this precious bit was two cents. 
The latter figure, unlike mine, had the pail poised 
upon the head. It was probably a true likeness of 
the renowned maid that counted the chickens in 
advance, thereby showing the people of her country 
to have been "born calculators.' I think the 
little body that showed me the way to my lodgings 
descended in a direct line from this old mathematical 
stock, and was a little proud of her origin. Her 
language was a mixture of Dutch, French, and, for all 
I know, several dead languages, but and I have her 
own authority for it not a mongrel tongue. Out of 
gratitude to one who led me to my home, I should 
speak well of this woman, as of the proverbial bridge, 
so am quite willing to accept her statement and 
allow her a " pure dialect" 



JOE THE CHIMPANZEE. 

WHEN in England I was very much interested 
in the monkeys at the Zoological Gardens, 
Regent's Park, London. There were hundreds of 
all kinds and sizes, from the gigantic orang-outang 
to tiny creatures not much bigger than a large rat. 

These monkeys had a spacious glass house, heat- 
ed by steam ; and as a tropical temperature was al- 
ways maintained, tall palms and luxurious vines grew 
so vigorously within its walls that I have no doubt 
the quaint inmates supposed themselves in their 
native haunts. 

They chattered and scolded each other, wildly 

chased stray little dogs and kittens, and really 

seemed to know so much that I half believed an old 

keeper, who told me the only reason they did rot 

12 



Joe the Chimpanzee. 

talk, was because they could make themselves well 
enough understood without. 

Many funny stories I heard of their sagacity. One 
I recall of a nurse who shook a naughty little boy in 
the presence of some of the mother monkeys, where- 
upon all the old monkeys began shaking all the 
young ones until it seemed as if their poor little 
heads would drop off. 

But, interested in all the singular inhabitants of the 
house, I grew attached to Joe, the young chimpanzee 
who had been brought a baby from the coast of Guinea 
the winter before. He had a little room on the sun- 
ny side of the monkey house, with a stove, table, 
chairs and a couple of beds arranged like the berths 
in the state room of an ocean steamer. Besides he 
had a man all to himself, to wait upon him ; and it 
was no wonder the other monkeys were jealous of 
his superior quarters and the deference paid him ; for 
while Joe was not handsome he was worth more 
money than all the others put together. 

He was worth this great sum because he belonged 
to the most intelligent and interesting species of the 
monkey family, and only one or two of his kinsfolk 
had ever been seen in Europe, while the only one the 
Zoological Society had ever owned, had died of lung 



Joe the Chimpanzee. 

fever before he had inhabited his comfortable quar- 
ters many months. 

Joe was about as tall as an average boy of eight 
or ten years. He wore a thick cloth roundabout, 
and a low flat trencher cap such as the Oxford stu- 
dents delight in. 

One day I walked to the door of his room and 
knocked. The keeper said " Come in/' and as I did 
so Joe walked erect over the floor to me, pulled off 
his cap with his left hand, and put out his right to 
shake mine. When I said " It is a fine morning," 
he bowed briskly ; but when I added, " Are you pret- 
ty well, Joe ? " he shook his head and looked very 
sober. The keeper explained : " Joe had a cold, and 
that made him very low spirited." 

Joe was listening attentively ; and when the man 
finished, he shivered and drew up the collar of 
his jacket round his hairy throat, as if to confirm the 
statement. 

I gave him an apple, which he looked at a mo- 
ment, then opened the door of the oven of his stove, 
and put it in out of sight. Seeming to understand 
that the fire was low, he pulled a basket from under 
the lower berth and took some bits of wood from it 
to the stove. Then the keeper handed him a match, 



Joe the Chimpanzee. 

i 

and he lighted a fire as cleverly as any Yankee boy 
I ever saw. 

" Show the lady how you read The Times, Joe/' 
said the keeper. 




JOE READS " The Times?' 

Joe drew up a chair, tilted it back a little, spread 
his legs apart, opened the sheet, turned it until he 
found the page he wanted, then settled himself into 
the exact position of the comfortable English gentle- 



Joe the Chimpanzee. 

man who supposes The Times is printed for his ex- 
clusive use. It was impossible to help laughing, and 
the sly twinkle in his narrow eye assured us Joe him- 
self knew how funny it was. 

Quite a crowd had gathered at the open door of 
his room, and as he noticed it, he put his hand in his 
pocket drew out the one eye-glass Englishman so 
particularly affect, and put it to his eye looking as 
weakly wise as Lord Dundreary himself. After a 
little he grew tired of so many spectators, left his 
chair and quietly shut the door in their faces. 

Looking about as if he would do something more 
for our amusement, he remembered his apple in the 
stove oven. Running there he took hold of the door, 
but suddenly drew back, for it was hot. He laughed 
a little at his discomfiture which he took in good 
part, stood thinking a moment, then used his pocket- 
handkerchief as deftly as a dainty lady would to ac- 
complish his purpose. But if the door was hot, 
the apple, Joe logically reasoned, must be hotter ; so 
he ventured not to touch it before opening his knife. 
Wondering what he was going to do, I found him 
sticking the blade into the apple and bringing it out 
in triumph. The keeper gave him a plate, and after 
letting the apple cool a little he offered it to us. We 



Joe the Chimpanzee. 

courteously declined, but the servant tasted, ex- 
plaining that Joe did not like to eat anything alone. 
Then Joe followed, but did not like the flavor, and 
being asked if it was sour, he nodded. We were 




JOE TRIES HIS APPLE. 



told that he, in common with the other monkeys, 
liked oranges and bananas better than any other 
fruits. 



Joe the Chimpanzee. 

Yet he kept tasting a little of the apple from a 
spoon while the keeper told us how the sailors who 
hoped to capture his mother only succeeded in bring- 
ing him off alive after they had killed her. They 
had hard work to keep him alive on board ship, but 
found a warm nook for him by the galley fire. He 
was in fair health when they landed, so they obtained 
the large price offered by the Zoological Gardens ; 
but in spite of the most devoted care, he seemed to 
languish in his new home. 

" Do you love me, Joe?" the man ended his story 
with. Joe nodded, smiled, and put his head lovingly 
on the other's shoulder. 

As we left that day, Joe took his hat, cane, and 
heavy wrap, and escorted us to the great door of the 
monkey house, shaking our hands as we bade him 
good-bye. 

Another time when I called he was taking tea, us- 
ing milk and sugar and handling cup and saucer as 
if he had been familiar with them from his earliest 
days. He motioned us to take chairs. We did so 
and he jumped up, found cups for us, and then 
passed a plate of biscuits, laughing with glee as we 
took one. I have taken tea with many curious indi- 



Joe the Chimpanzee. 

viduals, but never expect to be so honored again as 
to be invited by a chimpanzee. 

Noticing his hand was feverish, I found his pulse 
was 130. I said " What is the matter of him ? " 

" Consumption is what kills all of them," the man 
answered, low, just as if talking -before a human 
invalid. 

From that day Joe failed rapidly, and one morning 
under the head of "Great Loss," The Times an- 
nounced that he died at midnight. 

I went down at once to see the keeper whose grief 
I knew would be keen. 

He told me how for days, Joe could only be per- 
suaded to take food by seeing him eat and hearing 
him praise it, how he made him sleep in his berth by 
his side, and when death came, held his hand through 
all the last struggle. 

The man's voice was actually choked with sobs as 
he said, " It don't seem right, indeed it don't, not to 
have a funeral for him ! He ought to have had it." 

I never heard Joe had any funeral, but I did hear 
that he was stuffed, and looks more like a big boy 
than when he was alive. 



MARKET DAY AT PAU. 

IF you don't know where Pau is, do as I did when 
I first heard of it, look it up on some large map 
of France. 

Down in the southeast corner, at the mouth of the 
Adour river, you will see the city from which the bay- 
onet is said to have received its name ; and if you 
move your finger along about an inch due east from 
Bayonne you will be likely to pass it directly under 
Pau. 

It is the capital of one of the finest departments of 
France, the Basses-Pyrenees; and its mild, equable 
climate and charming scenery have made it, for the 
last thirty years, a favorite winter resort for invalids 
and pleasure-seekers. 

As the capital of the old province of Be*arn, and as 
the seat of the ancient royal castle where flourished 



Market Day at Pau. 

(he Gastons and Marguerites, and where Henri IV. of 
France was born, Pau has many interesting historical 
associations, upon which, however, we must resolutely 
turn our backs if we mean to go to market this morn- 
ing. 

Monday is always market-day at Pau, and then it 
is that the country conies bodily in and takes posses- 
sion of the town. At five o'clock in the morning the 
rumbling of cart-wheels and the clatter of sabots 
down in the cold gray streets announce the approach 
of a rustic army from the villages round about. On 
they come from every quarter all through the fore- 
noon, and if we walk out anywhere say to the 
Alle'e's de Morlaas, where we can sit on one of the 
benches under the trees and gaze now and then at 
the distant snowy Pyrenees, we shall see the end- 
less stream of market-people. 

The men wear round woolen caps without visors, 
called the beret ; a short frock, usually of some coarse 
cotton material, which is gathered so much about the 
neck as not to improve their stumpy figures; and 
huge wooden shoes that rattle and thump along the 
pavements, bringing with them on rainy days an in- 
credible quantity of country mud. 

The most noticeable feature in the dress of the 
women is the bright foulard handkerchief that serves 



Market-Day at Pau. 

instead of hat or bonnet. It is arranged according to 
the taste and age of the wearer, and is capable of 
producing a wide range of effects. 

The guide-book assures us that the paysannes walk 




A PEASANT WOMAN. 



barefoot on the country roads ; but, upon approach- 
ing the town, they cover their wayworn feet with the 
cherished shoes and stockings that have thus been 
spared from wear and tear. 



Market-Day at Pau. 

On a cold spring morning we saw a company of 
women descending a hill at Lourdes with enormous 
bundles of wood on their heads. As we were pitying 
the bare feet that went toiling down the steep way, 
we suddenly spied their shoes dangling from the fag- 
ots where they had considerately placed them, to be 
out of harm. 

The strength of these little peasant women is won- 
derful. They walk off with grand strides, carrying 
heavy burdens on their heads, and sometimes knitting 
as they go. Many of the young girls are very pretty ; 
but exposure and hard work soon change the fresh 
tint and the graceful outlines to a brown wrinkled 
visage and a gaunt ungainly figure. 

Sitting here, we are attracted by a jaunty young 
creature tripping along with a large, round, shallow 
basket of salad, or choux de Bruxelles, on her head, 
carelessly steadying it with one hand, while in the 
other she carries a pair of chickens or a basket ol 
eggs. But how can we see a pinched-looking woman 
tugging along under a big bag of potatoes, or break- 
ing stones on the road, without feeling tired ourselves 
and sad ? And neither the sadness nor the weariness 
is lightened upon seeing, as we invariably do, that 
when a woman is working with a man he generously 
gives her the heaviest end of the load. 



Market-Day at Pau. 

The wood is brought in on clumsy carts, generally 
two-wheeled and often covered. The oxen and cows 
that draw these carts have their bodies draped with 
coarse linen covers, and across their heads is a strip 
of sheep-skin, which is worn with the shaggy side out 




OX-TEAM. 

and the skinny side in. M. Taine tells us in his 
book on the Pyrenees that he saw the heads of the 
cattle protected by thread nets and ferns, which, I 
trust is their usual summer coiffure ; for in a country 
where, in winter, gentlemen carry parasols and wear 
large white streamers depending from their hats, to 
protect the head and back of the neck from the too 
ardent rays of the sun, even the " patient ox " might 





Market-Day at Pau. 

complain of the unfitness of a head-dress of sheep 
skin. 

The driver of the ox-team is armed with a long 
stick, at the end of which is an iron goad. This he 
uses either in guiding the cattle, which is done by go- 
ing in advance of them and stretching the stick back- 
ward with a queer, stiff gesture, or in pricking and 
prodding the poor creatures till they hardly know 
which way to turn. The cattle, which are mostly of a 
light brown color, are very large and fine ; but it 
seems strange to us to see cows wearing the yoke. 

But. O ! the donkey ! The wise, the tough, the 
musical, the irresistible, the universal donkey ! How 
shall I ever give you an idea of what he becomes to 
an appreciative mind that has daily opportunities of 
studying his " tricks and manners ! " 

Fancy one of these long-eared, solemn-eyed gentry, 
scarcely larger than a good-sized Newfoundland dog 
jogging along with a double pannier bulging at his 
sides and a fat market-woman on his back. 

But the disproportion between the size of the beast 
and that of his burden, and his gravity and circum- 
spection, is scarcely funnier here than when he is 
placed before a two-wheeled cart, a story and a half 
higher than himself, and containing a man, a woman, 
a boy, and a pig ; sometimes cabbages and chickens, 




Market-Day at l y au. 

often two or three inexperienced calves. And in the 
afternoon, when market is over, I have often seen six 
or seven women huddled into one of these primitive 
chariots, each provided with the inevitable stocking 




" ONE OF THESE LONG-EARED, SOLEMN-EYED GENTRY." 

her tongue and her knitting-needles keeping time as 
the cart goes tilting along over the famous roads of 
the Basses-Pyre'ne'es. The gay handkerchiefs of the 
women, the purple, blue and gray stockings with 
their flashing needles, and the huge brown loaves of 
bread sure to be protruding in various quarters, made 



Market-Day at Pau. 

these groups, returning from market, most pictur- 
esquely striking. 

Coming in from the AUees de Morlaas we find, as 
we approach the Place des Efoles, an animated scene. 
The broad sidewalk is lined with rows of women sell- 
ing vegetables, fruit, flowers, poultry and eggs. The 
haggling of the buyers and the gibing of the venders, 
though carried on in patois unintelligible to us, are 
expressed in tones and accompanied by gestures that 
translate them quite effectively ; especially as not a 
market-day passes without a long recital from our 
Catherine, illustrating the greed of the peasants and 
her own superior finesse. 

" How much do you want for this chicken ? " 

" Three francs." 

" Keep your chicken for somebody see. I'll go to 
another." 

" Stay ! What will you give for it ? " 

"Two francs." 

" Get along with you 1 " 

As Catherine eyes the chicken which she secretly 
admires and openly abuses, another cook comes up 
and lays her hand on its comely breast. It is a deci- 
sive moment, but Catherine is equal to the emer- 
gency. 

" Stand off there 1 I'm here first." 



Market-Day at Pau. 

Then, with a secret resolve that her demoisclUs shall 
dine on that little plump poulct, she offers fifty sous 
and carries off the prize. To see her enter our salon 
bearing a waiter on which are a dozen fine rosy ap- 
ples and two large russet pears, with the question, 
" Guess how much I paid for all ? " written in every 
line of her shrewd old face, is something worth com- 
ing to Europe for. To make a sharp bargain, to 
cook a good dinner, and never to waste anything, 
these are the aims of her life and the themes of her 
discourse. 

( ur snug appartemcnt is opposite the Place dcs 
Efoles, where the wood and cattle are sold ; and the 
first peep in the morning gives us a picture, lively 
enough and foreign enough to make us look and look 
again many times during the day, till late in the af- 
ternoon when the Place is nearly bare ; and the aspect 
of the few patient but rather dejected-looking peas- 
ants whose wood has not yet found purchasers al- 
most tempts us to run over and buy a load or two, 
just for the pleasure of sending the poor creatures 
home with lighter hearts and heavier pockets. What 
would Catherine say to that, I wonder ? 

Besides the interest which we feel in the various 
natural hangers-on of the wood-carts ( and each one 
has from two to five of both sexes and all sizes ), we 
13 



Market- Day at Pau. 




" THE FAVORITE WAY OF TRANSPORTING A PIG." 

get no small amusement from their patrons, who rep- 
resent all sorts of townspeople, from the fat old 
woman of the green grocery and sausage-shop over 
the way, who peddles with easy affability among the 
market-people, to the lordly young Englishman who 
dashes on to the Place with the air of a conquering 
hero, and loftily indicates with his riding-whip the 
load that has the honor to meet his approval. 

Troops of frisky calves are scattered about, and 
groups of blue blouses and red berets are earnestly 
discussing the merits of the unsuspecting innocents. 
More rarely a fine cow, or a yoke of oxen, attracts a 



Market-Day at Pau. 

circle of connoisseurs ; then the patois becomes more 
fluent, and the gestures more animated, and the fists 
of the interested parties are seen flourishing unpleas- 
antly near the disdainful noses of the critics. 

The prolonged and penetrating squeal of that pig 
in the Rue des Cultivateurs reminds me that this in- 
teresting animal figures largely in the scenes of mar- 
ket-day. Pork being an important article of peasant 
diet, Mr. Piggy is always abroad on Monday and con- 
tributes largely to the general e'clat. 

The favorite way of transporting a moderate sized 
pig is to put him about the neck, holding his hind 
feet with one hand and his forefeet with the other. 
This method, though attended with some disadvan- 
tages, such as the proximity of the squeal to the ear 
of the carrier, is, on the whole, less worrying than 
that of tying a string to one of the hind legs of his 
Porkship, this giving him a chance to pull his way 
with more or less effect, while the peasant is frantic- 
ally jerking in the opposite direction. 

Not infrequently a pig gets a ride home from mar- 
ket in the cart of his new owner. Then, true to his 
nature and principles, he resists the honor accorded 
him with the whole might of his legs and lungs ; so 
that, with a man at his hind legs, a woman at his 
left ear, and a boy at his right fore leg, he is with dif- 



Market-Day at Pau. 

ficulty assisted to his coach and is held there, en route, 
by that " eternal vigilance " which is, in more senses 
than one, " the price of liberty." 

On the Rue Porte Neuve and near the Halle Neuve, 
in the centre of the town, the venders of agricultural 
implements, kitchen hardware, locks and keys, second- 




"A GRAV-HAIRED SPINNER WITH HER ANCIENT DISTAFF." 

hand books, handkerchiefs, collars, cuffs, hats, brace- 
lets, rings, baskets, brooms, bottles, mouse-traps, and 
other miscellaneous articles, display their goods, and 
a sudden shower makes bad work in this busy com- 
munity. 



Market-Day at Pau. 

By the Halle Neuve is the fruit and vegetable mar- 
ket also, and farther on, in the Rue de la Prefecture, 
we suddenly come upon a hollow square inclosed on 
three sides by ancient looking buildings, one of which 
is the Nieille Halle ; and here are fish, poultry and 
game, and the queerest-looking market-people in the 
whole town, it seems to me. 

There is a flower market on the Place Royal, and 
you will see the Spanish women there, with their 
foulards and trinkets, to catch a few sous from the 
rustics. 

We cannot confine our interest to the market-folk, 
however, for everybody is more or less picturesque in 
this strange land, and we are never tired of saying, 
"See here," and "See there.'' Sometimes itisagray- 
haired spinner with her ancient distaff that attracts 
our notice, as she sits in a sunny door-way or totters 
along the sidewalk ; and then there are the antics of 
these foreign children ! Be'arnais boys are as fond of 
standing on their heads as their American brethren 
are, but their large and heavy sabots are a great in 
convenience. 

Just look at those wooden shoes ranged along the 
sidewalk over there, while the owners thereof are 
flourishing their emancipated heels in fine style. 

These are some of the sights of a market-day at 



Market-Day at Pau. 

Pau ; but how can you ever get a notion of the 
sounds ? For when we add to the market-day hub- 
bub the various every-day street cries that mingle 




"AS FOND OF STANDING ON THEIR HEADS AS THEIR AMERICAN BRETHREN." 

with it we have a strange orchestra. 

There are the charcoal men, who begin on a high 
key and drop with an almost impossible interval to a 
prolonged, nasal, twanging note ; the old clo' men, 
whose patois for rags sounds so exactly like my com- 



Market-Day at Pau. 

panion's name that she is sure they are after the 
dresses she is economically wearing out at Pau ; the 
chimney-sweeps ; the jonchee women, who sell cream 
cheese, rolled in what looks like onion-tops; the 
roasted chestnut women, whose shrill " Tookow 1 " 
{patois for " Tout chaud" ) suggests piping-hot chest- 
nuts in bursting shells ; and the crockery and earthen 
men, who push their wares before them in long shal- 
low box-carts, and give, in a sustained recitative, the 
whole catalogue of delf and pottery. 

In the afternoon when the noise and stir ate sub- 
siding, we hear a few notes, often repeated, from 
what I should like to call a shepherd's pipe ; only the 
instrument in question is not in the least like one, 
but resembles more one of those little musical toys 
with a row of holes cut along one side, upon which 
our children at home are so fond of performing. 
However, our shepherd contrives to produce a pasto- 
ral effect with his simple strain, and we favor the illu- 
sion of the pipe by only listening to him, while we 
look at his pretty goats with long, silky black hair. 
He leads them through the town twice a day, and at 
the sound of his call those who wish goat's milk send 
out their glasses and get it warm from a goat milked 
at the door. As his last faint notes die out in the 
distance the rosy light fades from the peaks of the 
Pyrenees ; the sun has set, and market-day is over. 



IL SANTISSIMO BAMBINO. 

ON the Capitoline Hill, in Rome, stands a churcn, 
twelve hundred years old, called Ara Cceli. It 
is unpromising in its outward appearance, but is rich 
in marbles and mosaics within. 

The most precious possession of this ancient church 
however, is a wooden doll called II Santissimo Bam- 
bino The Most Holy Infant. It is dressed like an 
Italian baby, and an Italian baby is dressed like a 
mummy. We often see them in their mothers' arms, 
so swathed that they can no more move than a bundle 
without any baby inside of it. Their little legs must 
ache for the freedom of kicking. The dress of the 
Bambino is very different from that of a bambino after 
all, for it is cloth of silver, and it sparkles all over 
with jewels which have been presented to it, and it 
wears a golden crown upon its head. 

This is the history of this remarkable doll, as devout 



II Santissimo Bambino. 

Roman Catholics believe. You must judge for your- 
selves how much of it is truth and how much fable. 

They say this image of the infant Saviour was 
carved from olive-wood which grew upon the Mount 
of Olives, by a monk who lived in Palestine ; and, as 
he had no means of painting it with sufficient beauty, 
his prayers prevailed upon St. Luke to come down 
from Heaven and color it for him. Then he sent it to 
Rome to be present at the Christmas festival. It was 
shipwrecked on the way, but finally came safely to 
land, and was received with great reverence by the 
Franciscan monks, who placed it in a shrine at Ara 
Cceli. It was soon found to have miraculous power 
to heal the sick, and was so often sent for to visit 
them, that, at one time, it received more fees than any 
physician in Rome. It has its own carriage in which 
it rides abroad, and its own attendants who guard it 
with the utmost care. 

One woman was so selfish as to think it would be 
a capital thing if she could get possession of this won- 
der-working image for herself and her friends. 

" She had another doll prepared of the same size 
and appearance as the 'Santissimo,' and having 
feigned sickness and obtained permission to have it 
left with her, she dressed the false image in its 
clothes, and sent it back to Ara Cceli. The fraud was 




THE BAMBINO. 



H Santissimo Bambino. 

not discovered till night, when the Franciscan monks 
were awakened by the most furious ringing of bells 
and by thundering knocks at the west door of the 
church, and, hastening thither, could see nothing but 
a wee, naked, pink foot peeping in from under the 
door; but when they opened the door, without 
stood the little naked figure of the true Bambino 
of Ara Coeli, shivering in the wind and rain. So the 
false baby was sent back in disgrace, and the real 
baby restored to its home, never to be trusted away 
alone any more." 

This marvelous escape is duly recorded in the 
Sacristy of the church where the Bambino safely 
dwells under lock and key all the year, except the 
time from Christmas to Epiphany, when it comes 
out to receive the homage of the people. 

We went to see it last Christmas. 

As I told you, the church stands on one of the Seven 
Hills of the Eternal City ; it is approached by a flight 
of stone steps as wide as the building itself and as 
high as the hill. There were many beggars on 
these steps ; some old and blind, others young and 
bright-eyed. Beside the beggars, there were people 
with tiny images of the Baby in the Manger, toy 
sheep, and pictures of the Bambino for sale. 

When we went into the church, we found one of the 



U Santissimo Bambino. 

chapels fitted up like a tableau. The chapels are some- 
thing like large alcoves along the sides of a church. 
Each is consecrated to some saint, and often belongs 
to some particular family who have their weddings 
and funerals there. 

It was in the second chapel on the left that we 
found the scene represented. The Virgin Mary was 
dressed in a bright blue silk, adorned with various 
jewels. In her lap lay the Bambino, about the size of 
a baby six weeks old. I do not believe St. Luke 
painted its face, for it was not half so well done 
as most of the wooden dolls we see. An artifi- 
cial mule had his nose close to the baby's head. 
Joseph sat near, and in front the shepherds were 
kneeling. All these people were of life-size, made of 
wood, and dressed in real clothes. Beyond them was 
to be seen a pretty landscape sheep, covered with 
real wool, a girl with a pitcher on her head coming down 
a path to a sparkling fountain of glass. In the dis- 
tance was the town of Bethlehem. In mid-air hov- 
ered an angel, hung by a wire in his back from the 
ceiling. On pasteboard screens, above the Virgin and 
Child were painted a crowd of cherubs looking down, 
and in their midst God the Father whom no one 
hath seen nor can see was represented in the like- 
ness of a. venerable man, spreading his hands in 
blessing over the group below. 



II Santissimo Banbino. 

A great many little children were coming with the 
older people to look at all this, and talking, in their 
pretty Italian tongue, about the " Bambino." 

Epiphany, as perhaps you know, is the day kept in 
memory of the visit of the Wise Men where the Star 
in the East guided to our Saviour's cradle. On that 
day, II Santissimo Bambino was to be carried with all 
ceremony back to the Sacristy ; so we went to see 
that. 

We were glad to find the Blessed Virgin had two 
nice silk dresses ; she had changed from blue to red, 
and the Bambino was standing on her knee. The 
Shepherds had gone, and the Wise Men had come, 
all very gorgeous in flowered brocade and cloth of 
gold, with crowns on their heads, and pages to hold 
their trains. 

It was yet an hour or two before the " Procession of 
the Bambino" would proceed ; so we went out of 
the side door of the church to stray about the Capito- 
line Hill in the meanwhile. 

We went down the steps where Tiberias Gracchus, 
the friend of the people, was killed, some two thou- 
sand years ago. That brought us into a small square 
called Piazza di Campidoglio. It is surrounded on 
three sides by public buildings, and in front has a 
grand stairway leading down to the street. It was in 
this very spot that Brutus made his famous speech 



H Santissimo Bambino. 

after the assassination of Julius Caesar. We crossed 
the square, went up some steps and through an arch- 
way. 

A company of little Romans were playing soldier 
there, and the small drum-major made the walls of 
the capitol resound with his rattling music. That 
reminds me to tell you that Santa Claus does not 
visit Italy ; but an old woman, named Navona, comes 
instead. She may be his wife, for aught I know ; in 
fact, it seems quite likely, for she has a way, just like 
his, of coming down the chimney, bringing gifts for 
the good children and switches for the naughty. 
These must have been very good little boys, for 
every one of them seemed to have a new sword or 
gun. Probably Navona has to keep the house while 
Santa Claus is away about his Christmas business, 
and that is the reason she does not reach her small 
people here until the night before Epiphany, the 6th 
of January. 

We went down a lane of poor houses, dodging the 
clothes which hung drying over our heads, and came 
to a large green gate in the high stone wall of a gar- 
den. We knocked, but no one answered. Presently 
a black-eyed little boy came running to us, glad to 
earn two or three sous by going to call the custode. 
While we wait for him to do so, I must tell you why 

14 



n Santissimo Bambino. 

we wished to go through this green door. You have 
read, either in Latin or English, the story of Tarpaeia, 
the Roman maiden, who consented to show the Latin 
soldiers the way into the citadel if they would give 
her what they wore on their left arms, meaning their 
bracelets, and then the grim joke they played after 
she had done her part, by throwing upon her their 
shields, which were also "what they wore on their 
left arms." 

It was to see the Tarpaeian rock, where she led her 
country's enemies up, and where, later, traitors were 
hurled down, that we wished to go through the gate. 
Presently the keeper came, a rosy young woman, lead- 
ing a little girl, who was feeling very rich over a new 
dolly she was dangling by its arm. 

We were admitted to a small garden, where pretty 
pink roses were in blossom, and the oranges were 
hanging on the trees, though the icicles were fringing 
the fountain not far away. On the edge of the gar- 
den, along the brow of the cliff, runs a thick wall of 
brown stone ; we leaned over it and looked down the 
steep rock which one assaulting party after another 
tried, in old times, to scale. 

It was on this side that the Gauls were trying to 
reach the citadel at the time the geese saved the city 
Do you know that for a long time, annually, a dog 



II Santissimo Bambino. 

was crucified on the capitol, and a goose carried in 
triumph, because, on that occasion, the dogs failed to 
give the alarm and the geese did it ! 

We looked down on the roofs and into the courts 
of poor houses which have huddled close about the 
foot of the hill, but beyond them we could look down 
into the Forum, where Virginia was stabbed, where 
Horatius hung up the spoil of the Curiatii, where the 
body of Julius Caesar was burned, where the head of 
Cicero was cruelly exposed on the very rostrum where 
had often been seen the triumph of his eloquence. 
Opposite to us stood the Palatine Hill, a mass of 
crumbling palaces ; a little farther off rose the mighty 
wall of the Coliseum, where the gladiators used to 
fight, and where so many Christian martyrs were 
thrown to the wild beasts while tens of thousands of 
their fellow-men, more cruel than lions, looked on, for 
sport. 

Just at the roots of the Capitoline, close by, though 
out of sight, was the Mamertine Prison, where St. Paul, 
of whom the world was not worthy, was once shut up 
in the dismal darkness of the dungeon. 

As we went from the garden back to the Pi- 
azza di Campidoglio, we saw something unusual 
was going on in the palace on the left of the capital. 
In the door stood a guard in resplendent array of crim- 




FAMILY OF ROMAN BEGGARS. 



H Santissimo Bambino. 

son and gold lace. Looking through the arched en- 
trance, we could see in the inner court an open carriage 
with driver and footman in livery of bright scarlet. 
Something of a crowd was gathering in the corridors. 
We stopped to learn what it was all about. An Italian 
woman answered, " La Principessa Margarita ! " and 
an English lady close by explained that the Princess 
Margaret, wife of the crown prince, had come to dis- 
tribute prizes to the children of the public schools. 
Only invited guests could be present, but the people 
were waiting to see her come down. So we joined the 
people and waited also. 

It was a long time and a pretty cold one. A brass 
band in the court cheered our spirits now and then. 
The fine span of the princess looked rather excited, at 
first, by the trumpets so close to their ears, but they 
stood their ground bravely. If one of the scarlet 
footmen tightened a buckle, it raised our hopes that 
his mistress was coming ; the other put a fresh cigar 
in his mouth, and they sank. 

Meantime the guard in the gold-laced crimson coat 
and yellow silk stockings paced up and down. At 
length there was a messenger from above ; the royal 
carriage drove under the arch close to us. There was 
a rustle, and down came the princely lady, dressed in 
purple velvet, with mauve feathers in her hat, a white 



12 Santissimo Bambino. 

veil drawn over her face, and a large bouquet in her 
white-gloved hand rather pretty, and very graceful. 
Before entering her carriage, she turned to shake 
hands with the ladies and gentlemen who had accom- 
panied her. She was very complaisant, bowing low 
to them, and they still lower to her. Then she bowed 
graciously to the crowd right and left, and they re- 
sponded gratefully. She smiled upon them, high and 
low, but there was a look in her face, as it passed close 
to me, as if she was tired of smiling for the public. 
She seated herself in the carriage ; the lady-in-waiting 
took her place beside her, the gentleman-in-waiting 
threw over them the carriage-robe of white ermine 
lined with light blue velvet and stepped in himself. 

Then the equipage rolled off, the scarlet footmen 
getting up behind as it started. This princess is very 
good and kind, greatly beloved by the people, and, as 
there is no queen, she is the first lady in the kingdom. 
Her husband first and her little son next are heirs to 
the crown. 

This show being over, we hastened back to the 
church, fearing we had missed the Bambino in our 
pursuit of the princess. But we were in good time. 
On the side of the church opposite the tableau was a 
small, temporary platform. Little boys and girls were 
placed upon this, one after the other, to speak short 
pieces or recite verses about the Infant Christ. It 



H Santissimo Bambino. 

was a kind of Sunday-school concert in Italian. The 
language is very sweet in a child's mouth. There 
were a great many bright, black-eyed children in the 
church, and most of them seemed to have brought 
their Christmas presents along with them, as if to 
show them to the Bambino. 

There were ragged men in the crowd, and monks, 
and country-women with handkerchiefs tied over their 
heads for bonnets. One of them who stood near me 
had her first finger covered with rings up to the last 
joint. That is their great ambition in the way of 
dress. 

At length the organ ceased playing, and the notes 
of a military band were heard. Then we saw a ban- 
ner moving slowly down one of the aisles, followed by 
a train of lighted tapers. Over the heads of the peo- 
ple we could only see the banner and the lights ; they 
passed down and paused to take the Bambino. Then 
they marched slowly all around the church people 
falling on their knees as they passed by. 

Out at the front door they went, and that sacred 
image was held high aloft, so that all the people on 
the great stairway and in the square below might get 
a sight of it, and be blessed. Then up the middle of 
the church they came, to the high altar. This was 
our chance to see them perfectly. 

First the banner with the image of the Virgin on it 



H Santissimo Bambino. 

was borne by a young priest dressed in a long black 
robe and a white short gown trimmed with lace ; next 
came a long procession of men in ordinary dress, car- 
rying long and large wax candles, which they had a 
disagreeable habit of dripping as they went along. 

" Servants of great houses," remarked a lady behind 
me. 

" They used to come themselves," answered another. 

Then followed Franciscan monks in their brown 
copes, each with a knotted rope for a girdle, and san- 
dals only on his bare feet. After these came the 
band of musicians, all little boys; and now ap- 
proached, with measured tread, three priests in rich 
robes of white brocade, enriched with silver. The 
middle one, a tall, venerable-looking man, with hoary 
hair and solemn countenance, held erect in his hands 
the sacred dolly. As it passed, believers dropped 
upon their knees. When he reached the high altar, 
he reverently kissed its feet, and delivered it to its 
custodian to be carried to the Sacristy ! 




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Russia, Austria, Turkey, Italy, Spain, Asia, Africa, and North and South America. Un- 
questionably the finest work of the kind ever printed. Buckram. Price, SI .50. 

THE WERNER POCKET ATLAS OF THE UNITED STATES. 

A real pocket atlas 5x3^ inches, 96 pages, leatherette covers. Needed by every 
traveling man. Should be on every desk. Price, 1O cents. 

THE CAPITOL COOK BOOK. 

448 pages, 8 Jx6 inches ; weight, i % pounds ; over 1,400 tested recipes by HUGO ZIEMAN, 
ex-steward of the White House, and the well-known expert, Mrs. F. L. GILLETTE. 
Illustrated. Price, 5O cents. 

THE WALDORF COOK BOOK. 

By " OSCAR " of the Waldorf. The most thorough and complete treatise on Practical 
Cookery ever published. The author, OSCAR TSCHIRKY, Maitre d'Hotel, The Waldorf and 
Astoria, is acknowledged to be one of the foremost culinary authorities of the world. 
Elaborate directions are given for making ice creams, ices, pastries and tea and coffee. 
Selections may be made to gratify any taste. Original and varied recipes are given for 
making toothsome confections, preserves, jams, pickles and other condiments. Over 
900 pages. Valuable information, indispensable to families, hotels, cafes and boarding 
houses. Wholesome, palatable, economic and systematic cooking. Everything used as 
food is fully considered. Nearly 4,000 recipes. The best and most comprehensive cook 
book compiled. Special features, such as suggestions with regard to the kitchen, menus, 
bills of fare, the seasons, market, etc., etc. Size, 8xio^ x 2% inches. Bound in one 
large octavo volume of over 900 pages in handsome oil cloth. Price, $2.50. 

THE STORY OF AMERICAN HEROISM. 

As told by the Medal Winners and Roll of Honor men. A remarkable collection of 
thrilling, historical incidents of personal adventures during and after the great Civil 
War. Narratives by such heroes as Gen. LEW WALLACE, Gen. O. O. HOWARD, Gen. 
ALEX. WEBB, Gen. FITZHTJGH LEE, Gen. WADE HAMPTON. A war gallery of noted men 
and events. A massive volume of over 700 pages, printed on fine calendered paper. 
Illustrated with three hundred original drawings of personal exploits. English cloth, 
emblematic design in gold and colors, S2.5O. 

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of the advertised price. 

THE WERNER COMPANY, Publishers, - Akron, 0. 



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